


The Silence of the Mind

by bornofstars



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Mind Control, Resistance, Sexual Slavery, Submission, Suicide, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2020-11-08 04:11:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20829212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bornofstars/pseuds/bornofstars
Summary: Once more he probes, with more force, not wanting to kill the boy, but wanting to break through the shield.And then, faintly, through a small crack that Spock either put there, or simply did not notice, he hears a Terran song, quick and upbeat, with female voices singing in chorus.“What is Waterloo?” Spock asks. To his surprise, the boy laughs, but does not pull away.“My mom’s favourite song,” Jim says. "I take it your not an ABBA fan?"





	1. Chapter 1

When Spock first hears about him, his logic simply refutes the idea. 

Vulcan has been in control of the planet Earth for almost twenty of their standard years. That is 19.85 years of Spock’s life. His mother is from Earth, a human, and the first ever one he had met. She is also the only one that Spock has bothered to see any value in. But since Vulcan’s conquering of the Terra planet, he has come into contact with approximately a thousand other human life forms of all varieties. Whores, mostly, who dance and serve Spock and his squadron. Servants and dignitaries and plantation owners, all shapes and sizes. He has noted in his travels that Earth's politicians all share the same sheen of sweat, and the same speech impediment humans refer to as a “stammer.”

Spock does not speculate, but if he did, he would concur that humans offer up the most diverse range of appearances in the entire Vulcan empire. Their genetics, whilst inferior, were scientifically interesting. 

Despite their vast assortment of heritages, skin colours, sizes and temperaments, the humans all have one thing in common. It had been the cause of their downfall to Vulcan, and the reason why their feeble attempts at rebellion were quashed every time. 

When Spock reaches into their minds, their thoughts spill out carelessly, a myriad of feelings and observations, usually soaked in fear and confused arousal, a sensation he had quite grown to enjoy. He had once taken a whore, who had been so frightened of touching him, certain that he could read her thoughts and would surely kill her for her insubordination. She had been so petrified that she had projected out her anxieties to every Vulcan within twenty feet, screaming internally as he took her roughly across a velvet lounge of the whore house. His comrades had cast him bemused glances for the rest of the night, but did not comment on the matter. Humans were toys for their use, but Spock has himself become indifferent to the novelty of their weak minds. Their minds often could not tolerate his probing telepathy. It was not uncommon to find humans, mostly beautiful young men and women, twitching and unresponsive, the grey matter that comprised their primal brains permanently altered by his kind’s heavy touch.

  
So, when Sauv, his trusted squire, tells him of the Terran boy with an empty mind, Spock gives pause, raising one eyebrow. 

“Elaborate.” Spock says, placing his goblet down on the table.

Sauv does not blink, folding his hands in his lap. They are on Earth, in Hong-Kong. The humans are celebrating a festivity that Spock did not care to educate himself with, but obeyed his father, and is there as to show Vulcan’s generosity, that humans are still allowed their jubilations. The Chinese government had laid out a vast canopy of Vulcan food, human whores, and lanterns in abundances of colours. On the streets below them, there is music and sounds of celebration.

“A Terran boy, they have said. Syrek stated that his mind was impenetrable. Shields of Vulcan standards were his words.” 

“Impossible.” Spock responds. “He was not, as humans say, _brain-dead_?” 

His companion pulls a passing woman’s arm and she falls into his lap with a giggle. Sauv rips the fabric of the girl’s dress up and sits her back down, hand squeezing the pale skin of her thigh. 

“Syrek was positive that he was aware of what was happening.” Sauv murmurs, voice roughened by his drink. Spock calculates that if he is not inebriated now, he will be by the end of their night. It is Sauv’s way. He is often careless with the humans, and takes upmost advantage of their offerings. Spock shifts almost restlessly, before he stills himself and composes his mind. Beside him, Sauv begins to move his hands up the woman’s corseted waist, her painted face relaxing in the pleasure he feeds through his fingers. Other Vulcans Spock knew preferred to inflict pain with no pretences or attempts to gain arousal. They said that fear was far more nourishing, the emotion more distinct.

“Did he not think to detain him for further study?” Spock asks.

Sauv glances at him over the woman’s slim shoulders with a neutral glance, but Spock can see the exasperation at his persistent questioning. He imagines that Sauv quite regrets ever mentioning it. 

“No. I believe he thought the boy amusing, and harmless for the most part.” 

A Terran with mental shields. The idea is as troubling as it is fascinating. Spock does not think Syrek a liar, but ponders on his inefficiency in besting a human’s mind. 

When Spock had been born, one of the first human-vulcan hybrids, he had been expected to be disadvantaged by his mother’s heritage. Not many could have foreseen him become one of the most powerful telepaths of his generation. The idea of being bested by a human boy makes a feeling not dissimilar to discomfort rise fleetingly within Spock. He takes a drink and looks out onto the festivities below him. He leans forward in his chair, steeling his hands beneath his chin.

“Where did Syrek encounter the boy?” He asks. The woman groans and then cuts off into a sharp gasp, and Spock feels the familiar ripple in the air as Sauv plunders her mind. Her pain radiates out in spikes, laced with their mutual pleasure. Sauv grunts, and then says in a controlled voice. 

“Riverside, Iowa, in the Americas.” He says. “Relax, Spock. It is a festivity. Terran custom is to accept any offerings made to you.” 

Spock turns his head. The woman’s nose is bleeding slightly but she seems lost in the ecstasy of telepathy. Sauv bites her exposed neck, but the woman does not react, senseless and paralytic. Usually, Spock would have gone through several Terrans by now, both male and female. But Sauv’s story has unbalanced him. He wishes to retreat to his temporary residence to meditate on the matter, but knows that his father would disapprove of his absence. 

If he were human, Spock would sigh. Instead, he drinks from his cup, watching the flaming lanterns and lights below. Later in the evening, when one of the serving boys comes to fill up their refreshments, Spock commands him to sit on the floor and place his head upon Spock’s lap. When Spock runs a hand through the boy’s dark hair, he feels the excitement and nervousness from the Vulcan’s attentions, the sensation spreading through his hand like warm water. He feeds off of the mind-waves, but takes none of the usual pleasure from it. Oddly, the influx of his mind makes Spock’s lip curl in disgust. He takes no care as he pilfered the boy’s thoughts, his presencea ripping harsh pleasure until he is drooling in Spock’s lap. Sauv lets out a huff that is the closest he will ever get to laughing. Spock does not glance down despite his cock hardening in his pants. He continues to stare out at the lights and colours, his mind troubled. He had to go to Iowa, to disprove Syrek’s conclusion. No human could resist the pull of his telepathy. Syrek had simply been duped. 

“Careful, _Kaisu,_” Sauv says. His voice sounds distant despite his proximity. “You’ll kill that boy.” 

Spock glances down as the boy seizes and fits, his skin whitened and his eyes rolled back into his head. _Weak_, he chastises, pulling back from his mind with a harsh tug. He lets the boy slump to the floor and stands. Aftershocks of confusion and hurt reach out for him feebly, but Spock bats them away. 

“I must depart,” Spock says. 

Sauv nods.The girl grinds shamelessly against him, but he stills her with a large hand. Her nose bleeds freely, and there are scarlet stains around Sauv’s mouth.The iron in human blood is most pleasing to the Vulcan palate, but Spock feels none of his usual desire to partake in the delicacy.

“Contact me in the morning with your location, and I will meet you.” Sauv says. Spock simply nods, too distracted to form an answer. He steps over the boy and departs the festival, casting a warning glance at the sweating proprietor, who bows deeply as he passes. 

* * *

He does not leave for Iowa immediately, although he would very much like to. 

Instead, he returns to his quarters and meditates until the sun rises. The embassy in Hong-Kong is spacious and rarely used, which allows Spock the peace to rebalance himself. In the morning, he is well-rested, and any conflict about travelling to find the Terran boy have dissipated. He boards his private shuttle, setting course for Riverside, Iowa. 

  
Sauv meets him on the dock before they board, and he does not question Spock’s choices. His mind is sated and full from the countless humans he supped from the night previous, and Spock feels it in their proximity. It is unusual for Spock not to feel the same way. Sauv meditates at the back of the shuttle as Spock reads from his PADD. He searches the Vulcan archives, but there is little research that entertains the idea of human telepathy. The vast majority of humans were psi-null, and it was an assumed fact that humans were no match to the Vulcan mind. His findings only validate his logic; he is investigating a threat to the empire. Although, a single human is not a particularly formidable peril. Their bones are far weaker than Vulcans, their bodies delicate and light. Terran males, the taller of the two sexes, only met the heights of Vulcan’s females. If Spock could not best him mentally, he had no doubt that he could out-win him physically. 

Iowa is far colder than Hong-Kong, but Spock is disciplined enough not to flinch as he departs the shuttle. Most establishments on Earth are kept at a warmer temperature to please visiting Vulcans, but the outdoor air, as though the last of human defiance, cannot be controlled.

By now, his driver will have alerted his father of his whereabouts, although Spock doubts that Sarek will care. He is otherwise occupied in the Andorian system, and as long as Spock does not shirk his duties, he has the freedom to go wherever he likes upon Earth.

He knows that his mother was born West to Iowa, in the state of Washington, but he has never felt a need to visit. He finds the air ripe and pleasing as he leaves the shuttle dock with Sauv in procession.

“I recall Syrek was staying at _The Swift Finish,_” Sauv remarks, removing dust carefully from his uniform. Spock raises an eyebrow.

“How apt.” He replies. “Find us a hover car.” 

By now, the officials of Iowa are aware of their presence, and are, as humans say, tripping over themselves to provide their amenities. A car is sent to them, and Sauv directs them to what appears to be a brothel disguised as an entertainment complex. Despite the late afternoon, _The Swift Finish _seems busy, as Spock regards the entry way momentarily. He enters and is met with pulsating music and flashing lights humans seem to be so fond of. There are several Vulcans already present, on Earth for business, presumably for the mining core nearby. They stand when Spock approaches, and all raise their hands in the formal Ta’al.

“Peace and long life,” Spock greets. They all return the greeting. 

“Spock has come to investigate the Terran boy with the mental shields.” Sauv announces. Spock almost feels a flush of embarrassment, but knows that his logic is sound, and there is no cause for mortification. The Vulcans look amongst themselves, seemingly amused.

“Quite the fascinating case, we have heard.” One of the Vulcans, who Spock recognises as Se’tek, speaks out. He is inebriated on cacao drinks, and his mouth is lob-sided as he talks. 

“He is not present, apparently.” He continues. His brow furrows, and Spock notes the lack of facial control consistent with intoxication. “We did ask for him.” 

“I understand.” Spock says. An unidentifiable feeling is occurring within him when he hears that he is not the only Vulcan who is curious. And then, he says. “If you’ll excuse me.” 

Sauv follows him through the crowd at an unhurried pace. Spock senses that he is attempting to begin a dialogue, but stops himself before he speaks each time. There are both men and women, dancing around metal poles, on raised daises, on the floor, serving drinks and foods, pulling patrons of all heritages into draped off areas to copulate or give pleasure. So foreign to the Vulcan way that the sight still disarms Spock on occasion. Vulcans do not give pleasure; reproduction is the sole purpose of sexual activity. 

Spock takes in all of their minds, their thoughts, their projections of pleasure. It does not take him long to find the owner of the establishment, a large, sweating human male. It may be because the temperature is set to Vulcan standards, but Spock is certain his presence is a cause of fear. The owner bows deeply, almost touching the floor. He then attempts the traditional Ta’al, but seemingly cannot separate his fingers, and quickly places his arms behind his back. 

  
“Commanders,” He greets, coming up from the ground. “What an honour and a privilege to have you here. How can I help you? What do you desire?” 

He desires for the man to stop talking and to bring him the Terran boy, but he does not say this. Instead, Spock gestures to Sauv. 

“He will take Orion absinthe and your best dancers.” Spock says. The human male nods and snaps his fingers to a half-naked woman, hailing from Senegal, judging by her internal thoughts and dark skin. She turns on her heel and returns moments later with a fluorescent decanter and glasses, and leads Sauv off to a shadowy lounge. 

The human man’s perspiration visibly increases when Spock remains in front of him, but he perseveres. Spock takes a moment to sip at the panicked thoughts shooting through the air, but does not imbibe too much. His mind is strong and well-rested, and it would be easy to drain such a weak life-form. 

“I have heard of a boy under your care here. My comrades found that he had some form of defensive telepathy. I will meet him now.” 

The man balks, casting his eyes left and right in the way humans do as they construct fruitless excuses. But both Spock and the man know that Spock is not just any Vulcan, there on Earth to partake in the offered pleasures to the empire. He is son of Sarek, the ruler of the very floor they stand on, and the over-oxygenated air that they breathe. There are certain advantages to his title.

“The boy did not mean to cause offence.” The human says in defeat. “I did not know he possessed the power. None of us did. Sit, my Lord, and he will be out shortly.” 

Spock sits in one of the more secluded areas where the music is less loud, and the dancers are focused more on a nearby group of inebriated Ferengi traders and their demands. A bottle of dark, Vulcan wine is bought to him, but he waves away the server with no niceties. He did not come here for such frivolous activities. He came to see the boy. 

He sees Sauv enjoying two women, twins, across the floor. But Spock knows that he is keeping his wits about him, and the drink he holds is there only as a cover. He awaits Spock signals at any signs of duress, ever the loyal squire. 

The man returns with a boy in tow. Spock knows it is an illogical thought, but he did not imagine the boy to look the way he does. He had expected perhaps, darker hair, a more surly expression, something more Vulcan. It would fit one of his hypothesis’, that there was Vulcan heritage responsible for his alleged telepathic prowess. But the boy is further from Vulcan traditional features as he could be. His skin was flushed and tanned, his body almost stocky despite the malnutrition must dancers suffer from. An adolescent, seventeen or eighteen. Eyes meet his and they are blue, but glassy and devoid of any emotion, the only correlation that Spock can draw between the boy and Vulcans. That, and the waves of crushing silence, absolute oblivion, that replace the usual spilling of thoughts from humans who come before him. 

  
He can hear the proprietor’s increasing worries, his wondering if blood will come out of the fabric of the lounge Spock is sat on, and Spock glances up at the man with a withering look.

“Leave us.” 

The man almost trips over himself in his haste, pulling back the curtain behind them to give them privacy. The neon lights mounted upon the walls casts them both in periodic flashes of blue, and then red, and then green. 

Spock does not speak for a few moments. From his experiences on Earth, he knows that prolonged silence often unnerves humans. The boy knelt upon arrival to the lounge, and stares demurely at the floor, his hands open and unclenched, resting on his naked thighs. Spock probes forward lightly with his mind, reaching out into the air around him. If he strains, he can hear the fumbling pleasure of the Orion in the next alcove, who is receiving particularly enthusiastic fellatio. 

But in front of him, it is as though nobody is there. 

This proves nothing, Spock reminds himself. Sometimes there must be a physical point of contact to form a telepathic connection. Spock stares at the boy’s golden crown of hair for a few moments before he speaks. 

“Come forward.” 

The boy does not hesitate, but gives no sign of emotion as he crawls forward. He does not slink or gyrate the way the others do. It is oddly…refreshing. He kneels a half-foot away from Spock, eyes still on the ground. 

“What is your name?” Spock asks.

The boy looks up, blinking once. It is an odd question, coming from a Vulcan, even odder to ask a dancer. Spock knows that he has never asked for a name before, never caring enough to enquire. His logic rationalises that it is prudent he know just who he is speaking to, if he is as Syrek had described. 

“James. I go by Jim.” The boy, Jim, replies. 

His eyes return to the floor before he is finished speaking. It is not uncommon for humans to avoid eye contact, but it is mostly a sign of submission or anxiety, both of which seem absent on Jim’s carefully-schooled features. It is fascinating to Spock, and he realises that without their thoughts, humans are more unreadable than Vulcans know. But Spock is not truly Vulcan, and the way that Jim is completely still is not dissimilar to how his mother stands when she is uncomfortable, or overcome with fury. He reaches out a hand in the guise of stroking the boys hair. His mind expands like a retreating wave, ready to receive the influx of badly-ordered, hectic Terran thoughts. The hair is soft and smooth under his hands, and Spock touches his finger tips to the boy’s scalp, psi-receptors tingling.

Spock enters Jim’s mind, feels the tug, and then… it is as though coming up to reinforced steel barriers, locked, sealed. Impenetrable. He pushes harder, but is met with such a crushing wall of silence that Spock feels his brow furrow in surprise. Once more he probes, with more force, not wanting to kill the boy, but wanting to break through the shield. 

And then, faintly, through a small crack that Spock either put there, or simply did not notice, he hears a Terran song, quick and upbeat, with female voices singing in chorus. 

“What is _Waterloo_?” Spock asks. To his surprise, the boy laughs, but does not pull away.

“My mom’s favourite song,” Jim says. “I take it your not an ABBA fan?”

At Spock’s stony silence, Jim speaks again. 

“I listen to it in my head a lot. Helps me focus.”

“What, exactly, are you focusing on?” Spock's asks. He does not remove his hands from the boy’s hair, but leans back against the lounge.

“Stopping you getting into my head.” Jim replies. He raises an eyebrow in a manner Spock recognises as cheek. “Sorry. Restricted access only.” 

Spock raises his own eyebrow in turn. 

“You dare deny me entry?” He asks. If his tone were not so flat, Spock might sound indignant. The boy simply shrugs. Spock does not wish to be imperious, but he is speaking before he can control himself.

“Do you know who I am?” 

The boy nods. “Spock, Son of Sarek. Supreme Overlord, Emperor, blah, blah. Either put your cock in my mouth, fuck me, or make me dance.”

Any other Vulcan would punish Jim for his insolence, but Spock remains curious. He turns his head to the side in his hand, as though Jim’s physical appearance may reveal his powers. The song continues to slither into his mind, quiet and perfectly paced. 

“What if I wanted to access your mind?” Spock asks. 

“As I said,” Jim says. A vein flickers in his forehead, his first sign of irritation. “No, sorry, but no. Your kind has taken my entire planet. You can have my body, but my mind is my own.” 

  
Spock cannot hide it. “Fascinating.” He says aloud. “How are you doing this?” 

“Doing what?” The boy asks. Spock curses himself for asking such a vague question. He pulls his hand away from Jim’s hair and sits back once more. The empty silence consumes him once more. The feeling is not preferable. 

“Closing off your mind.” He says, as though it were obvious what he was asking. 

“Ah.” Jim says. “Well, as that old Terran phrase goes, ‘a magician never tells his tricks.’” 

Spock raises a single eyebrow, a scandalous show of emotion that he does not seem to have control over. 

  
“You are a mage of some sort?” He asks. 

The laughter he receives makes Spock’s skin warm, but he controls any blushing of his cheeks with steely determination. He has never met a servant more disobedient, and one who was so unafraid. As illogical as it is, his insubordination bothers Spock far more than it should. He reaches forward and grabs the boy by the throat, careful not to hit the exposed nerves with his psi-receptors.

  
“Tell me how you are doing this and I will spare your life.” Spock says. The evenness of his tone does not lessen the threat. 

  
The boy has the sensibility to stop laughing, but when he looks up at Spock there is no discernible fear in his eyes. In fact, Spock sees nothing, no emotion, no anxiety or frustration. Remarkable control for a human. If not for his light hair and eyes, Jim could pass for Vulcan. 

“Strong grip you got there,” Jim says, glancing down his nose to the rather large hand wrapped around his neck. His voice sounds rather choked. “God, okay, damnit. If you loosen up, I’ll tell you.” 

Spock lets go slightly.

“So, am I causing quite the uproar amongst your kind?” Jim says instead of explaining himself. Spock does not shrug, but he understands the motive for its frequency within human dialect. Instead, he answers promptly. 

  
“There is…talk.” Spock replies. “It is most unusual for your kind to possess any kind of telepathy. To have shields in place is an abnormality. There is no record of this happening within our history.” He is unsure why he decides to share that information, but the words are out of his mouth before he can truly think his answer through. 

Jim does not seem surprised by this. Spock feels him swallow beneath his hand and decides to sit back and allow him to speak, folding his palms together in his lap. 

“I didn’t mean for that Vulcan dude to notice,” Jim begins. Spock presumes that the “Vulcan dude” Jim is referring to is Syrek. He does not interrupt to clarify, listening intently against the thrum of the music playing throughout the club. 

  
“Usually, I don’t deal with Betazoids or Vulcans. It’s been pretty easy for me to get away with that; I used to just bus tables and pour drinks here, until I got noticed. Then they moved me out from the kitchen and onto the floor, and well, some of the Vulcan squadrons were in town, and one of them requested me for a private dance. I’m not stupid, I know what your kind do. There’s been girls here who were completely brain-dead after spending a night with a Vulcan. But it wasn’t like I could say no, so that’s how I got found out.” 

Spock mulls over his words for a few moments. His patience ebbs away. Whilst Jim had been talking, he had attempted to probe his mind once more, but he was dispelled as though it took no effort. His next words were sharper than he intended. 

“I did not ask how you were caught. I asked how you acquired this ability.” 

Jim blinks up at him twice, his lips parting slightly at his tone. Spock feels arousal stir in his stomach; usually he did not have a particular preference for Terrans, but he found himself favouring Jim’s complexion and colouring. Very odd, indeed.

  
“Fine.” Jim says with a huff. He readjusts himself on the floor, and then looks up at Spock imploringly. “Let me at least stand, its a long story and my knees are killing me.” 

Spock simply does not know how to handle such insolence, but considers the request briefly before he allows it. He gestures to the chaise lounge opposite himself, unsure of his motives. Jim stands and sits quickly, the stretch of his muscles and skin making Spock bite slightly on the fleshy inside of his cheek. He gestures for Jim to begin. 

  
“Ever heard of Tarsus IV?” Jim asks without preamble. He takes a deep breath, as though he had said something with an emotional weight that Spock is not privy to. It is an odd juxtaposition to such a blank expression.

Spock nods once.

At his gesture, Jim continues.

“I lived on Earth when they were looking for colony occupants. My mom worked off-planet and my step-dad would be glad to see the back of me, so they shipped me out there. I begged to go. It was good, at first. I liked the freedom, the independence. And then, a few months in, something started happening to the food supplies. The Governor issued a complete comms blackout, and each day the food just started diminishing, halving and halving until we were getting barely enough to call it scraps. I was living by one of the schooling outposts. A lot of the kids, they looked to me for answers. Too late, I realised, the colony was shutting out half of the population. Everyone began to starve. It was….” 

“The toxic fungi destroyed the food supplies.” Spock recalls, remembering the event, through his parent’s discussion of its aftermath. His father viewed the incident as proof that Earth would surely perish without Vulcan intervention.

“Yes.” Jim answers. He is physically present, but it is as though his eyes were seeing events and memories from a distant past. 

“I saw a lot of death. There were riots in the streets, people looting, raping. There was no order, no law out there. Nobody trusted each other, everybody was hungry and dehydrated, the fungus was in the air. We couldn’t _breathe._” Jim clasps his hands in a manner similar to Spock’s, but Spock does not think it is a position of comfort, but more of unease. 

  
“ I gave the last of my food away to the younger children, although it wasn’t enough to really help anybody. There didn’t seem to be a hope in the fucking world for us. I curled up, and I went into a strange meditation. Thought I was dying, but it was different. I have never been able to describe it,” He laughs then, and Spock is bought out of his visualisation of Jim’s story. “Not that I’ve ever told anybody.” 

“When I woke up,” Jim continues. “I was on a med-shuttle headed back to Earth, about twenty pounds down and with my mind completely closed off. I don’t know who or what put the shields in my mind, but they’re there.” 

Spock contemplates the veracity of Jim’s recount of his time on the Tarsus IV colony. 

“Before,” Spock asks. “You said that you were ‘stopping me getting into your head.’ Do you consciously raise the shields?” 

  
“Not quite.” Jim says, and then frowns. “I’m not sure how they work, but I feel like I’ve gotten some control over them. When I first got back to Earth, it was as though there was something lodged in my skull. I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. Drove me nuts; I even tried to drive off a cliff, just to feel something. It got better as I got older. Now I just got some weird padlocks on my thoughts that I don’t know the combinations to.” 

“Fascinating,” Spock says again. The boy raises an eyebrow in confusion.

“So, you’re not gonna kill me for this?” Jim asks. “Isn’t this a crime against, you know, all that is Vulcan?” 

“Logically, you pose no threat.” Spock says. “ I do not know why you have such shields in place. I can only speculate that it is a result of the trauma of a near-death experience, although there is not enough evidence to say so conclusively.” Then, unnecessarily, he adds,“You are not at fault for the happenings on the Tarsus IV. Your motivations are benign.” 

Jim’s relief is visible. He looks very young in the flashing lights around him. But then he frowns once more.

"You weren't sent here to terminate me, or whatever you call it?" 

Spock hesitates for a moment before he answers. 

"I came out of my own curiosity." He admits blankly. "If I deemed you to be in violation of the accords, you would have been dealt with appropriately." 

"Oh." Is Jim's only reply. There is silence for seconds that stretch out longer than what seems possible.

“Come,” Spock says after a moment of thought. He decides that he is much too far away.  


Obediently, Jim stands from the lounge and comes to him quickly, standing by his knees. Spock stands and reaches a hand out to stretch over Jim’s face. The silence is like a cool wash of water, and Spock finds it so alien that he does not wish to pull away. But he has found the boy, and had the questions that could be answered, answered. As much as he would like to test the limits of the shields, or to study him within the Vulcan Science Academy, his logic dictates the decision unwise. Spock may not see the Terran boy as threatening, but he could not say that his peers would feel the same. He had already made a reputation for himself in such a small corner of the world. On Vulcan, Jim would be chased by every inquisitive scientist, diplomat, and scholar. Spock would not tolerate it. 

The feeling of possession is unexpected. He finds that he does not want to leave Jim to be caressed and touched by others, to be probed by the rest of his kind, but knows that the feeling is illogical. He pulls away to take his leave, when Jim’s cool-skinned hand reaches up to grab him lightly on the wrist. Spock looks down in surprise. 

“Thank you,” Jim says. The words look as though they were hard to summon, and Spock’s understanding of the boy grows at the sight. 

“No thanks are necessary.” Spock says mechanically. 

“You must go?” Jim asks. Spock is unsure if he is still unable to truly read human emotion, for he thinks that perhaps Jim is saddened by the prospect of Spock’s departure. 

“Yes.” Spock replies. 

Jim lets go of his hand, and Spock feels the loss of the touch through his shirt sleeve. 

“Well, when you’re Earth-side again and looking for a good time…” Jim trails off coyly. Spock does not smile, as it is not his way, but allows himself a single twitch of his eyebrow. 

“Indeed.” Spock says. He realises belatedly that this is the most polite that he has ever been in the presence of Terrans. He thinks to the boy the night previous, writhing and fitting on his lap. He had been weak, inferior, such a frail mind, whereas Jim…

Spock leans down before Jim speaks again, hands wrapping around the frail jawbone, their lips meeting. It is also perhaps the softest kiss that Spock has ever experienced. He only ever partook human form of kissing when he was fucking, and it was more of a clash of teeth and tongue, the complete domination of both the body and mind. 

The kiss deepens, and Jim makes a noise in the back of his throat. It is so startling, or perhaps, more aptly, strange, to have no anxious mind fluttering against Spock’s, but curiously, he does not dislike the sensation. Jim’s hands clench around Spock’s collar, and then daringly go up into his neatly styled hair. No human has ever dared to touch him in such a manner, but it causes a peculiar reaction, for Spock kisses him harder, probing his tongue and licking at the plushness of his pink-flushed lips. 

“Spock,” Jim murmurs against his mouth, and the sound of his name makes Spock’s cock harden as he pushes Jim down onto the lounge. He is debating whether he should undress the boy, when he hears his name once more. 

  
“Commander Spock,” Sauv says through the curtain. “Apologies, but we must depart. A matter of urgency from your father.” 

“I understand.” Spock says, pulling back smoothly, unwilling to show his reluctance to do so. 

He straightens himself out with efficiency before he turns to the panting human he has left on the lounge. 

  
“ I intend to take up your offer, the next time I am “Earth-side.”” Spock says without preamble. He feels Sauv turn his mind and body away, giving him privacy for a moment. 

Kiss-swollen and breathless, Jim gives him a smile of red and blue flashing teeth. He rolls onto his stomach and reaches for one of Spock’s hands. Lewdly, he kisses the tips of two of his fingers. 

A thrill shoots up Spock’s arm, and at the contact he hears that song once more in his mind.

“Live long and prosper, Commander.” Jim says against his fingers. Almost dazedly, Spock nods and turns to leave. He hears the humming of the tune as he departs the lounge, avoiding the questioning look of his comrade.

"Your curiosity is satisfied, Spock?" Sauv asks as they navigate smoothly out of _The Swift Finish. _Spock shields his mind carefully, maintaining a collected calm he does not truly feel. He will need to meditate immediately to re-centre himself. 

"Further data must be gathered." Spock replies. "I will return to do so." 

He sees Sauv's eyebrow quirk, but does not acknowledge it. Today, it seems, he is quite lenient with insubordination. 


	2. Part 2: Resistance

Human’s tendency to use idioms and metaphors made understanding them unnecessarily difficult. But a particular phrase his mother often employs springs to mind as Spock reviews the damage report on his PADD. 

_What comes up_, she used to say, _must come down. _

Talk of rebellions are common under dictatorship. A human quality, the emotion of hope, is exceedingly arduous to diminish. There has been small pocket fires of uprisings since the Vulcans took over, all quickly extinguished before they could become problematic. For the most part, Terrans are submissive in an effort to preserve their own lives. The reckless few who would not bow down gave the species a bad reputation. A glance into human history further supported the sentiment. 

Reflecting on the last several months, Spock sees the mirrored weakness of his own kind. Where humans are idiotically hopeful, even in the face of grave odds, and are outflanked in every possible way, Vulcans are continuously underestimating them. It will be the cause of their downfall, he muses privately, if such an event would occur. To attempt to codify and predict human behaviour is impossible. They are simply too unpredictable.

A Vulcan research outpost in Andorian space is gone. Blown to pieces, countless lives lost, and valuable archives scattered in the vacuum of space. Most of the research data is uploaded to a separate server, but it is the principle, what the loss of the outpost represents. Vulnerability. Weakness. It cannot go unavenged. To borrow the human metaphor, this act is spitting in the face of the Vulcan empire. Punishment is an imperative. 

_Trident, _the Imperial-class ship that Spock currently occupies, circles the debris of the destroyed outpost. Any logical enemy would have retreated far into another sector. When the warp trace was locked onto, however, they found that the offending ship had docked on the ice planes of Andor. The extraction had been easy; seven members of the human resistance were captured and bought back up the _Trident, _awaiting their fate in the brigg. Another vessel was docked on the surface, interrogating the Andorian leader and his family for potentially harbouring fugitives. 

His father has given him orders to use his own discretion, but he knows that the punishment will be severe. To allow such stains on the pristine shine of the Vulcan empire would be a crime against his own kind. 

They stay hovering over Andor’s orbit, partially to enforce their presence, but also to capture any more human rebels, should they have missed any on the planet below. Several legions of Vulcan soldiers have been deployed onto the planet to show the might of Vulcan. Spock reads over the damage report once more, the pain of many lives wasted not lost on him. It is an unprecedented defeat.

He will meditate on it later. 

They have allowed the prisoners some time to ruminate in separate cells in the brig. The identification chips have all been ripped out of their necks, according to his medical officer, so he must find out their names himself. A menial task, to invade their minds. And he will not be gentle. 

The first cell opens and a woman is curled on the flat surface of the bunk, facing the wall. Spock manually switches the lights up to 80%, although he can sense that the prisoner is not sleeping. She has shed the thick coat and goggles onto the floor, the Vulcan heat of the ship too much for her fragile body. 

“Prisoner,” Spock says, shutting the door behind him. 

There is blood matted in her long hair, and he watches it for a moment as she rolls onto her side to face him. Her face is bruised, swollen, and her eyes are so full of rage it is palpable in the air around them. 

“I’m not saying a word, Vulcan scum.” She hisses. Spock nods. The psi-receptors in his hands tingle. 

“I do not require that of you.” He says.

The room is cramped and small, but the woman does not curl up on herself as he expects. Instead, she sits upright on the bunk, staring up at him. Such hatred. Her lack of control almost disgusts him. It comes off of her in heavy waves, swirling and striking at his immaculate shields. For a moment, Spock thinks the woman might try and fight him, - a foolish endeavour, - but shamefully an act he invites. There would be something cathartic in snapping her neck, destroying the threat to the heir of Vulcan. But she does not resist as he places his hands on her psi-points, snarling lightly as she feels their minds connect. 

The barrier he comes up against is like pushing a battering ram against a wooden fence. Easy to break through, just a sliver of resistance. Spock does not bat an eyelid, but internally he is surprised to find any semblance of amental barricade in a human girl. He had only come across a human mind with enough mental discipline to resist him, and that had surely been an anomaly. 

It does not matter. Spock pushes further into the woman’s mind. 

Her name is Nyota. She is from the hot plains of Africa, a large continent on Earth. Born into the Vulcan regime. Her mind seems to be more organised than most humans, but the panic of her capture and injuries have sent the careful catalogue of her memories into a chaotic swirl. Spock takes it all in. Her work in mathematics, and then linguistics. She’d broken several laws and committed treason by learning any language other than Vulcan. Hidden in her room as a child, listening to forbidden holos, repeating words until she was fluent.

Her father, a scientist. Used as a small cog in the machine, stationed in America to work. But he had been foolish, reckless. Spock saw her memories of the day that he was exterminated. Stealing information, working for a resistance network. Put to death on the rug in their hallway by Vulcan enforcers. Nyota had been fifteen. Her mother had been killed by association, but not Nyota…She had use. 

The lights of _The Swift Finish _burn in her mind, and Spock recognises the establishment, his own memory identical. Taken in, preened and injected, dancing and singing for Vulcan soldiers, alien merchants and syndicate members. He sees her snap at a frisky Orion in his native tongue, hears his threat to inform the Vulcans of her treason, and then…

  
A black, gaping hole. The memory has been sewn over, patched up with a blanket of obsidian. Spock can feel the edges of exertion in his own mind, but pushes harder, swiping at the memory as though he will tear down the tapestry to reveal her true recollections. He knows that this is what he needs, the crucial information to bring about the end of the resistance. 

A gasp fills the room, pained and stung, but Spock is relentless. Vulcan lives have been lost. He must know. 

There is nothing in the darkness for several moments. A crack of beaming white fills his mind. He has broken through. 

And, then, he hears a familiar voice. 

“I can help you strengthen your mind, Uhura. Stop them getting in your head.” 

Jim Kirk. He is certain.

“You are working with Jim Kirk?” Spock says, pulling back from the woman. His hands are tingling, and his mind whirls slightly as it catalogues the new information. The boy’s mind had grown, if he were able to absorb, even replace memories from others. Spock should have killed him when he had the chance. 

  
Nyota groans into the floor, her voice muffled. When Spock looks down, she is crying into her hand, and the heady scent of copper fills the room. She must have bitten into her own skin in her anguish, or perhaps her tongue. A common reaction to his probing. 

Jim. Of course he would join the resistance. He could withstand their telepathic probes, and had seen the weakness in Spock, his foolishness. The perfect weapon. Beneath him, her mind was unravelling, a projection of an image flowing freely into his clutches. Jim Kirk, wrapped in thick clothes to weather the Andorian climate, wind-bitten and smiling, jumping down into the icy snow from a small attack shuttle. 

“I will never…betray him. We will always…resist.” Nyota says, her words still enveloped by her hand. Spock glances down, half-forgetting her presence. When he sees the blood pooling on the floor, he turns her over sharply onto her back with the toe of his boot. 

She’s bitten through the web of her thumb, her teeth glistening with a heady red. There’s foam around the corners of her mouth, and her chest spasms, almost in a laugh. A glob of blood lands on the crease of Spock’s pants. He squats on the floor, watching with curiosity as she begins to convulse on the hard surface of the floor, hands flailing at her sides. He could probably resuscitate her, he knew, but such an act was an intimacy she did not deserve. When she grew still, he took the injured hand in his own, bringing it to his nose and sniffing delicately. Past all of the copper stench of human blood, he detected a scent of almonds and potassium. Cyanide. _The Suicide Pill, _an ancient warfare tactic, used to avoid giving information to the enemy. Sewn beneath the delicate patch of skin connecting her thumb to her palm. A smart tactic, he admits begrudgingly. Spock stands, and steps over the fallen woman, and leaves the cell. 

For a second, he hesitates in the doorway. 

This woman has attempted to bring about the downfall of his way of life, his father’s legacy. She had died cursing him. And yet, there was a strange feeling, a reluctance, to see her life gone. There had been such a sharp, gleaming intelligence that Spock almost mourns the loss of it. 

He steels himself. Mind melding can exhaust one’s mental constitution. His loyalty to Vulcan does not waver. 

There are five other prisoners currently being held in the brig. He pulls up the surveillance footage of each cell, cycling through. He skips Nyota Uhura’s cell, quietly putting aside time tonight to meditate on his conflicting feelings for her death. But then, he sees him. Sat on his bunk, back straight, staring resolutely at the opposing wall. With a nod of confirmation to the guard, Spock enters cell number 3 without hesitation. 

Jim Kirk pulls his eyes away from the wall. Spock stands in the doorway for a moment, and watches the smile unfold on the man’s face. No longer a boy, he notes to himself. Simultaneously hardened and stream-lined, wind-chaffed skin and several smattered bruises on his face and neck. The last of the childish roundness has been sheered away by rough living and space travel. 

“Spock, you son of a bitch,” Jim greets. His voice is exactly as he remembers, if a little grainy. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

Spock closes the door behind him. He knows he should not engage this prisoner. They were not in Iowa, not under the lights of _The Swift Finish, _and he is no longer seeking pleasure. Perhaps it’s the human part of him, that causes Spock to raise an eyebrow and quip him back, ignoring the insult to his mother. It had sounded almost affectionate. 

“On my own ship?”   


Jim laughs, folding his hands behind his head. They are cuffed, Spock notices. A more resistant, wilful prisoner than the girl. Unsurprising. 

“Can’t believe you remember me.” Jim sighs. “Thought I would be a blur from your escapades on Earth.” 

“Your abilities were worth remembering.” Spock answers. “And Vulcans memories are eidetic.” 

“How flattering.” Jim says. “I haven’t forgotten about you either.” 

“You are a long way from Iowa.” Spock states. 

“I heard Andor is nice this time of year.” Jim says. He pulls his hands awkwardly back over his head, before studying his nails with faux boredom. 

“I do not believe you have travelled this far to visit Andor for recreational purposes. Unauthorised travel is an act of treason.” Spock answers. “You are part of the human resistance.” 

Jim shrugs. “What gave that away?” 

Spock decides not to answer. He sees the small puddle of melted ice at Jim’s feet, the dirt and grime staining the suede of the boot toes. Unbidden, his mind pulls fourth the image of Jim, sprawled out on the floor of their private room, bathed in flaring lights, the pulse of music and the ecstasy drifting through the air. The boy from Tarsus IV. A survivor, he supplies, which is a foolish label, - a romanticised title to give to a traitor. But there is some truth to the sentiment. Braving the starving colony as a child, the pleasure dens of Earth, and now on the front line of an un-winnable cause. 

“One of your comrades is dead.” Spock announces instead. “She committed suicide. Will you be attempting such an act?” 

Jim loses his smile for the first time, and for an odd moment Spock wishes that he had spared him of the news. He watches the sadness ripple across his face, bracing for the waves of his despair to hit his shields, before being met with that absolute oblivion of emptiness once more. He has almost forgot the sensation. But then Jim nods, once, minutely, and steels himself. 

“She was a good solider.” Jim says firmly. “And a friend. She did what she had to do.” 

“She was a child in a costume.” Spock corrects. “As are you. Vulcan will not fall by the hands of a group of human rogues. Your sacrifices will mean nothing.” 

Jim’s smile returns, but there is no humour in it. Bloodless and hard, all spikes and stretched skin. 

“Uhura died protecting valuable information.” Jim says. “And you couldn’t find it, could you? If you had, you wouldn’t be stood here talking to me.” 

Spock feels a real flair of anger. It was unwise to come and interrogate Jim with such depleted energy. He had been awake for two standard days when they had received news of the outpost’s attack, and is beginning to feel the sluggish need to meditate and sleep until fully rested. 

“I will crush the minds of your comrades.” Spock says. “And if they dare to defy me, I will use other means of persuasion.” 

“Other means of persuasion.” Jim snorts, and Spock is stepping forward before he realises, reaching forward and grabbing around the man’s neck, cutting off his words with a hard clench. 

  
Jim gasps around the grip, but his eyes are shining. He huffs, and Spock feels his breath on his face. 

“How kinky,” He rasps. “Ohhh, Commander…” 

“Silence,” Spock hisses. “I am going to _destroy _every human who defies my empire. You will all be _ashes…_”

“Remember.. back in Iowa? 'You can have my body, but my mind is my own'.” 

Of course Spock remembers. The words are burned into his mind as though he had been branded by them. 

“I will have whatever I want.” Spock hears himself say. Jim laughs, almost a gurgle, his cheeks flushing red under his relentless grip. 

“I let you kiss me, didn’t I?” He says, breathless. “Even though you’re a bastard, I’ve half a mind to let you again.” 

“You could be an asset to the Vulcan Empire,” Spock says quietly, before he can stop himself. “I could have your life spared. I could give you luxury, a life of freedom. Your wishes would become a reality.” 

“Spock,” Jim says, and it sounds like a sigh, but Spock is not sure.

"A pretty cage is still a cage, I-"

He cuts him off with a searing kiss, relinquishing his grasp only slightly, closing his eyes against the heady sensation of lips against his own. He is back in _The Swift Finish, _the surge of possessiveness so amplified his mind is reeling. Jim could be everything. They would be the leaders of a new dawn, the dominion of the quadrants, more fearful than any of his forefathers. 

Jim’s cuffed hands come up to paw feebly at Spock’s chest, pulling him closer, and he hears a quiet whimper, swallowed up in the kiss. He knows there is surveillance covering the cell, but it’s wired only to his PADD. Perhaps, subconsciously he had predicted that he would lose his control around Jim. Only Jim could do this to him, coax out the human side he tries so hard to bury. 

Jim snaps his head back, finally breaking the kiss. Spock’s hands are still around his neck, their touch soft and more of a caress. 

“Your offer tempts me more than it should,” Jim admits quietly, breathless and kiss-swollen. 

“Give in to me,” Spock says. “And your wishes will be met.” 

The door behind them opens, and Spock hears the smart clump of a soldier’s boots. 

“I am in an interrogation,” Spock snaps. “Leave us.” 

Jim gives him a small smile. It is almost sad; a paradox. 

“I have a war to get back to.” He says. “Don’t be too mad at me, won’t you?” And, then, he says over Spock’s shoulder, “Stun, not kill, if you'd be so kind.” 

Spock feels a thread of confusion, and too late, he feels the thrum of a human presence behind him. 

  
The laser stab of a phaser hits him squarely in the back, and Spock feels his entire body lock as he sinks clumsily to the floor. He tries to stand but his muscles do not respond, instead staring at the boot of Jim, who kneels down and strokes a hand through Spock’s hair, mussing it.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” He murmurs. “Don’t miss me too much.” 

Spock tries to speak, but his tongue is lead in his mouth. 

“Damnit, Jim, we only have minutes before they sound the alarm-”

“Keep your panties on, Bones, and get me out of these cuffs.” 

Grumbling, and then the click of the bindings hitting the floor. 

“The shuttles going to dock, but it’ll trigger some sort of alarm. The others are in the air lock.” 

“Great, get me that phaser, on his hip.” 

Spock feels himself being moved, none too gently, until he is flat on his back. A man with dark hair and furrowed brows looks into his eyes as he rips his phaser from his belt, passing it back to Jim. 

“Why didn’t you let me kill this bastard?” The man, Bones, asks. He looks as though he might spit into Spock’s paralysed face, but doesn’t, standing back up. 

Spock doesn’t see, but he hears Jim’s almost playful voice. 

"What can I say? I got a soft spot for those pointy ears and pretty eyes.” He says. “Now, let’s go. Lovely seeing you as always, Commander.” 

Spock lays there in the cell for 1.23 minutes before he hears the ship-wide alarm, loud and blaring. It’s another 2.4 minutes before a low-level officer happens upon him, dragging him to his feet and to the medical bay. He hears chatter across the comms. Five prisoners escape through the airlock into a small cargo shuttle with a warp drive, and their out of Andor space before the Vulcans can fire on them. Down on the planet, his captain publically executes the Andor leaders in a fit of rage, sending out a live-holo to every quadrant demanding that the prisoners are returned, and any affiliates of the human rebellion will be terminated. 

Later, Spock watches the footage from the airlock in his bio-bed. They carry the woman’s, Nyota, body to the cargo shuttle. Humans bury their dead, Spock recalls. He watches them kill several Vulcans attempting to capture them, sees Jim ruthlessly cut down two officers before crowding up into the shuttle. He glances at the recording camera at the last moment, kissing his hand before blowing crudely at it. Spock knows that the gesture is for him. His lips still sting, a phantom sensation, from the interrogation cell. 

Despite deleting the footage from Jim’s cell, Spock knows that the probability of receiving a reprimand from his father is high. He has let insurgents cause further deaths, and escape an imperial ship. A prisoner died protecting critical information that Spock could not access. Humans are learning to shield their minds. The ramifications will be costly. Across the galaxy, other species will see their weakness, their hesitation. Other rebellions will occur; more fires will start to burn. 

Spock must be sleep-deprived, his mental functions compromised. He starts the surveillance recording over again, eyes tracking Jim run through the phaser fire. 

His loyalty is to the Vulcan Empire, to his planet, his species, his title. And yet, as the pixels that make up Jim Kirk blow a kiss through the screen, he cannot taper the feeling of gratitude within him that Jim is safe and alive, out in the vast sanctuary of space. 


End file.
